


Lace Me Up

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: But also quite a lot of dialogue sorry, Does it count as porn with plot if all the plot is just facilitating porn, I hate the word panties ergo Eddie also hates the word panties, Lingerie, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Reunion Sex, Smut, lace underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:20:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22450990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Eddie sighs and says, “Do you-do you know what the difference between a boyshort and a bikini is?”“Why are you asking me? You’re the one who had a wife.”“I never bought her underwear.”“Aw,” Richie says sympathetically, “was that why the relationship fell apart?”“Oh my God,” Eddie says. “You’re not fucking funny.”Or how two repressed middle-aged men accidentally get kinky.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 246
Collections: Anonymous





	Lace Me Up

**Author's Note:**

> TW: jokes about (non-existent) infidelity and sex work. And the blatant objectification of Timothée Chalamet.

“Eddie," Richie says, as soon as his face comes up on Skype. "Women like me _way_ more since I took myself off the market. It’s some reverse psychology shit, I’m telling you.”

_Alright. Guess we're skipping hellos and how are yous._

“Call me crazy,” Eddie says. “But maybe it’s less about that, and more the fact that you stopped telling jokes about your bitch of a girlfriend not letting you rewatch _American Pie_ at 3 am.”

“Now I just tell jokes about-”

“-Your bitch of a boyfriend not letting you rewatch _American Pie_ at 3 am. I know.”

“Which makes me an icon, apparently. Did you know that I’m an icon, Eddie?”

“In the sense that your very existence is blasphemous? Sure.”

“Anyway. Maybe _that’s_ why I got my very first underwear-wielding fan last night.”

Eddie snorts. “Ok. Yeah, that happened.”

Richie reaches out of frame. When he returns, he’s twirling red underwear around his finger.

Eddie recoils. “What the fuck, Richie? You _kept_ it?”

“You jealous?”

“No! I’m worried you’re going to turn gangrenous.”

Richie smiles, and twirls it the other way.

Eddie sighs. “If you’re going to keep the strange woman’s underwear, at least soak it in Lysol.”

Richie snorts. “I love you. I wish you were here so I could throw this in your face.”

“I would fucking kill you. Even faster than the syphilis in that fabric.”

Richie raises an eyebrow. “Derry sex education really fucked you over, huh?”

Eddie flips him the bird. “I’m not the one who confused ‘bedwetting’ and ‘wet dreams’ for 10 years of my life, asshole.”

“Hey,” Richie says. “I got there eventually. And your shorts were a great learning aid.”

“I’ll concede the point,” Eddie says. “If you move those somewhere I don’t have to see them.”

Richie slingshots them God knows where. “Happy?”

“No,” Eddie says. “But I’m surviving on the illusion that you aimed them into the bin.”

“Tell yourself what you need to tell yourself, babe.”

Richie's assistant Andrea has been quietly sending Eddie recordings of each stop on Richie's tour, so that he doesn't have to admit to Richie that he actually watches them. Eddie loves her. 

He opens up the most recent attachment the morning after Richie tells him about the show. It's a little grainy, but watchable.

Richie goes through the requisite _So happy to be back in my favourite city_. Eddie knows for a fact that the only thing he likes about Vegas is the vodka-infused pizza sauce he found at his local supermarket.

“But my boyfriend,” he continues, “would fucking hate it here.”

 _Probably accurate_ , Eddie thinks, and _Christ,_ that’s when Richie deftly catches a pair of underwear thrown onstage.

“Um,” Richie says, blinking. “Odd timing, but thank you. You’re a true ally,” he adds dryly. He ties the underwear in a bow around his mic.

 _Don’t_ , Eddie thinks. _Your mouth touches that mic._

“For the record, my boyfriend owns running shorts that are at least half this size. And somehow he’s allowed to wear them in public.”

Loud cheering erupts. Eddie’s groan is louder still.

The rest of the set goes on as practiced. Richie goes off on a little tangent about Eddie’s grocery shopping tactics that is undoubtedly boring to everyone except Eddie, who’s a little bit charmed.

At the end of the set, he unties the underwear from the microphone and, eyeing it thoughtfully, holds it up to his crotch.

“Do you think it’s my colour?” he asks.

The crowd responds. Positively.

And Eddie’s brain breaks.

_It's just that he's missing Richie_ , Eddie tells himself. That's why he's being haunted by the fucking spectre of Richie in red lace.

His neurons are getting crossed, or something, clinging on to the most recent image he has of Richie.

But Richie's going to be at the Arrivals gate any second; and Eddie's going to take him home and hopefully get fucked into a mattress; and his neurons are going to uncross. Just like that.

What actually happens is: Richie launches himself into Eddie at the Arrivals gate and doesn't let go for a good minute; Eddie takes him home and lets him sleep for 15 hours; Richie wakes up at 3 am thinking it's morning; Eddie makes him shower, because he's convinced that aeroplanes do not get cleaned. Then Richie fucks him into the mattress.

"I missed this," Richie says, between kisses and bites to Eddie's neck. "The Vegas hookers did not make me shower beforehand."

"Mhm." Eddie scrunches his eyes shut as Richie's wet hair dips all over his face. "I look forward to reading all about it in TMZ."

"Vultures. Can't a guy have an affair with a sex worker in peace anymore?"

"Hey," Eddie whispers in his ear. "You know why I don't believe you?"

"Because I'm an excellent boyfriend? And just, a great person in general?"

"No. Because you're not weeping like a little baby right now."

Richie snorts.

"And because the whole time you were away, you were asking me for nudes or phone sex like, every 3 seconds."

"Like I said. Excellent boyfriend."

"An excellent boyfriend would be sucking me off right now, Chee."

Richie raises an eyebrow. "Really? Cause you said you wanted me to fuck you before, so I'm like, a little confused as to what's on the table."

Eddie locks eyes with him and slides a hand down the front of his sweatpants. "I have to do everything myself."

Richie intertwines his fingers with Eddie's and gently pushes them against the bedspread. "We haven't seen each other in weeks," he says pleadingly. "Can't I just kiss you for a little while?"

"I'm not averse to the kissing," Eddie says, blushing, which is _stupid_ , because he's 41, and he's been dating Richie for ages. "I just don't understand why it can't come _after_ the coming."

"Because," Richie says, "the sleeping will come after the coming. Punctually."

There's a brief pause. Eddie sighs. "Fine. Sap."

Richie smiles, rubbing his nose against Eddie's in an approximation of an Eskimo kiss.

Then his teeth are pulling at Eddie's bottom lip.

Lips successfully parted, Richie's tongue darts across Eddie's, gone as soon as Eddie chases it. 

Richie plants soft kisses down his neck instead.

Which is _distracting,_ but not as distracting as-

"Richie. Did you use my shampoo?"

"Oh," Richie pulls his head back. "Yeah. You might want to stock up on that, because I'm definitely taking it on my next tour."

"...You like it?" Eddie asks, confused.

"Fuck no. It smells like Pepto-Bismol. I just miss it."

"Fine," mumbles Eddie, feeling a weird tickle in his chest, "if it'll stop you using motel soap on your hair."

Richie ducks back down to fumble through undoing each of the buttons on Eddie's pajama shirt, kissing each new patch of skin as it's exposed.

"So," he asks, once his mouth is pink, and Eddie is covered in stubble burn. "Fuck or suck?"

"Eugh," Eddie winces. "You really know how to ruin a mood."

"What?" asks Richie. "Do you want both? Cause we can do like, a tasting plate situation-"

"It's 3 am," Eddie says. "Just fuck me already."

Richie reaches for the bedside drawer and pulls out a bottle of cherry lube.

"Ooh. This is new."

"Yeah," Eddie deadpans. "It was a gift from one of my many lovers."

"There was like, a whole nother bottle in here before. Someone gets handsy while I'm away."

And Eddie, a little sick of Richie's smugness, says, "What? Am I not allowed to fuck myself when you're not here?"

Richie goes quietly blank for a second before he swallows and says, "Maybe you should show me what you do."

And Eddie sighs, because it seems like they're getting further and further away from Richie fucking him, but he grabs the lube and slicks two fingers all the same.

He's as efficient as possible. If he keeps his eyes shut, he can pretend it's Richie's fingers making him arch up-until Richie grabs them, pulls them out, and pushes himself in instead.

And Eddie is fairly certain that his neurons are back to normal, or at least back to their usual level of abnormal, because he still finds Richie attractive when he's wiping off his unconscious, unshaven, jet-lagged body. And he barely even thinks about red lace.

Until the next morning, when Richie is leaning on the counter, waiting for the toaster, and from his chair Eddie can see the faintest sliver of red peeking out above his sweatpants. And he really hopes that Richie isn't wearing that random audience member's underwear, because that would be repulsive, and only just a tiny bit sexy. And then Richie's toast pops up, and he shifts, and it reveals a bit more of what is-just his red briefs. Obviously.

Richie doesn't notice, just slathers his toast with butter and jam, and sits opposite Eddie. 

He beams when Eddie tangles their feet together. "I missed this."

"They have toast in Vegas," Eddie says, smiling back when Richie flips him the bird.

Richie eats his toast in about 3 seconds, then says, "What time is it? Can we go back to sleep?"

"It's 8 o'clock," Eddie says. "And no. Vegas is barely even a different time zone, what is wrong with your body?"

"Aeroplanes fuck me up, Eduardo."

"Then drink some water. Get some vitamin D. I'm not letting you go back to sleep. You might _actually_ die."

"Fine," says Richie, getting up, "I'll go to the shops and buy a barely legal energy drink, I guess. Since my own boyfriend is engaging in sleep deprivation torture."

Eddie rolls his eyes. "I _didn't_ miss this."

Richie beams and presses a kiss to Eddie's hair on his way out. "Yes you did."

Eddie gets his laptop. And looks up Richie's Vegas set. _Just to prove to himself that he's totally over it, now that Richie's back._

As soon as Richie catches red lace between his fingertips, it becomes very clear that he's not.

Its harder just to watch, since Richie's back. Since sense memories of last night are getting uncomfortably tangled up in what's onscreen.

He looks at the door. Richie always goes into a state of distraction in the middle of the confectionery aisle. He has at least half an hour.

He brings the laptop to his bedroom and slides under the covers, still warm from last night.

He sits up against the headboard. Onscreen Richie talks while Eddie gets distracted by the inky bloom on his shoulder, ever-present in his peripheral vision. He strokes a thumb over it before he digs a nail in. It's not Richie's teeth, but it's the best he can do right now.

He reaches into the bedside table drawer for lube, but his hand knocks against the purple vibrator first. The muscles in his stomach tighten, and he ends up pulling them both out.

He doesn't need a lot of preparation after last night. Just pulls his briefs to his knees, pours some of the lube into his hand and slicks it around the vibrator before pushing the tip inside.

He breathes shorter and sharper as he moves it, maybe not as stretched as he thought. But he happens to be a fan of _a little too much_ , so he turns it on and forces himself down as his hips buck away.

It's harder to stay quiet when he's overstimulated, which is why he tends to avoid it when Richie's here. He doesn't need to know that Eddie has a habit of wearing his name out.

...Not that it would be _all_ bad, Richie being here.

Richie, barely hidden through lace eyelets. The fabric pressing against the sensitive skin of Eddie's thighs, his jaw, his stomach, his-

There's a clatter. Eddie blinks, wondering, for a second, if it's coming from the laptop. Then he hears "Hey. I forgot my wallet, so-"

Eddie fucking grabs the duvet, pulls it up around himself, pulls his knees up with it. Hisses as he pulls out the vibe in one swift movement, turning it off in the process. Moves to put it in the bedside drawer, realises Richie's already coming in and just shoves it under the duvet instead. _Gross_.

What he doesn't realise is that the laptop slides halfway across the bed, stand-up still blaring through the speakers as Richie walks into the bedroom.

A few horrible seconds pass, before, "Oh my God," Richie whispers, gleefully surveying the scene. "You get off to my comedy."

" _No_ ," says Eddie, vehemently, pulling the covers tighter. "I don't."

"Oh my God," Richie repeats, enjoying himself way too much. 

"I _don't_ ," Eddie insists, feeling warm and gross and sticky. Richie just raises an eyebrow dubiously.

"It wasn't the set!" he says, breaking, because he can't imagine anything more humiliating than getting off to Richie's stand-up, (except, maybe, getting off to Richie's old stand-up). "It was the fucking underwear."

Which wipes the smug little smirk off Richie's face, at least, but now he just looks confused.

"...What?"

"Nothing. Your wallet's probably still in your backpack," Eddie says, and turns to bury his face in the pillow.

He can still hear Richie's voice projecting from the speakers, but when he turns back around to turn the laptop off, he sees it's too late. Richie's already sitting next to him, eyeing the screen.

"Oh," he says, voice unreadable. "The underwear. That works for you?"

"I think so?" Eddie says miserably. "I mean, it's not like some long-kept secret. This was the first time I actually...." he trails off. 

"Aw," Richie says, smirking and poking his waist. "Your first time." The movement jostles him, and he frowns. "What am I sitting on?" He reaches underneath himself, and pulls out the purple vibrator.

His face splits into a grin. "I've been replaced. By a worthy competitor."

Everything feels a little less horrible with Richie just smiling at him, but Eddie gives the requisite sigh, and says, "...Can you give me a ballpark figure on when you're going to stop making fun of me for this? Like, in six months? A year?"

Richie's smile grows. "I wasn't making fun of you." He pauses. "I mean, I was," he amends, "and I always will. But I'm also game."

Eddie's brain stutters over the words. "...You're game. To wear lingerie."

"You were the one who stopped me dressing as a slutty hot dog for Halloween last year, I don't know why this is surprising to you."

"Rich. Are you sure? You don't have to, it's not a big deal. At all."

"Eddie. You vastly underestimate how dedicated I am to getting you off."

Eddie's nose wrinkles. "That's kind of sweet? Mostly gross, but kind of sweet?"

"That's the Richie Tozier experience, baby." 

Eddie offers to buy them, since Richie stepping foot into the women's underwear section will probably spawn a series of _Gay for a Day: Richie Tozier Spotted Buying Underwear for Mystery Woman_ articles.

Richie gets a call half an hour after Eddie leaves for Target. He hopes he's not having an asthma attack in the lingerie section.

“What’s up, Eds?”

“There are women _everywhere_.”

“In the women’s underwear section? That can’t be right.”

Eddie sighs. “I’m going to kill you. If I get out of here without being arrested for spending a weird amount of time in the women’s underwear section, I’m going to kill you.”

“I think you’re more likely to be arrested for yelling death threats into your phone,” Richie says helpfully.

Eddie sighs and says, “Do you-do you know what the difference between a boyshort and a bikini is?”

“Why are you asking me? You’re the one who had a wife.”

“I never bought her underwear.”

“Aw,” Richie says sympathetically, “was that why the relationship fell apart?”

“Oh my God,” Eddie says. “You’re not fucking funny.”

Richie thinks he is pretty fucking funny, but he also doesn’t want to spend the night on the couch, so he says, “Just get anything. Except granny panties.”

“ _Don’t_ say that word.”

“Which word?” Richie asks innocently. “Panties?”

“You sound like a Dickensian pervert.”

“Well, old sport-”

“Not the time for the British guy.”

There's a gasp and a clatter.

“Eds? You ok?”

“No. No, I need a fucking hazmat suit. One of these pairs has been _worn_. And not over clothing.”

“Buy them,” Richie says helpfully. “Reduce, reuse, recycle.”

“Hold on,” Eddie says. “I need to douse myself in hand sanitiser.”

Richie waits a few moments.

“Ok,” says Eddie, sounding breathless. “A woman looked at me while I was staring at underwear and rubbing hand sanitiser all over my hands, except she didn’t know it was hand sanitiser, and I had a brief, terrifying moment of clarity about what she _thought_ it was, so I grabbed 5 pairs at random and started powerwalking to the self-checkout and that’s-that’s the situation we’re in now.”

“Fuck,” Richie says, laughing. “5 pairs? All for me? I’m gonna have to re-evaluate who the sugar daddy is in this relationship.”

“What do you mean ‘re-evaluate’? Terrible souvenir t-shirts aren’t anyone’s definition of sugar, Richie.”

“Excuse me,” Richie says. “I didn’t know fancy lingerie was on the table until yesterday.”

“I hate you,” Eddie says, and Richie can just tell that his cheeks are pink. “I’m heading back to the car. Thanks for being absolutely no help. I’ll let you know if that lady called the cops on me.”

“When you get home,” Richie says, “do we have to go through the rigmarole of washing everything first, or-”

Eddie hangs up on him.

Richie holds up a burgundy pair with _wine not_ written all over them.

“Now this is a tasteful gift to get a former alcoholic.”

“I _told_ you,” Eddie says. “I grabbed them at random.”

Richie holds up a pair of Spanx. “So this isn’t you sending me a message, then?”

"God no," says Eddie. "Don't become a gym rat. They're insufferable."

"...You're a gym rat."

"Yeah, but I was insufferable before then."

Richie smiles. "You wear it well."

Eddie rifles through the pile to pick up a pair of red lace boyshorts.

"What do you think?" he asks, shrugging sheepishly.

"I don't know," Richie says. "I liked the wine mum ones."

Eddie's mouth turns down.

"I'm kidding," Richie says. "Lace me up."

"Gross," Eddie says. "They're getting washed first. Then you can try them out."

Eddie doesn't want to push it. He washes and dries the underwear then leaves them out, so Richie can try them on if he wants. Or not.

They disappear, but they don't get mentioned again for the rest of the week, and Eddie's starting to think the answer is _not._

Which is ok, really. At least Richie knows, and doesn't seem horrified by the notion that Eddie might be imagining him in lace sometimes, and Eddie can live with it just being imagined. He's not expecting anything.

Especially not when he comes home late on Friday, sleepy and overworked. He slips off his shoes and socks and sits on the couch, about to watch something mindless on TV.

"Today was very educational for me," Richie says, sitting next to him.

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. I learnt that women's underwear is hugely uncomfortable."

"Oh," says Eddie, hairs pricking up on the back of his neck, suddenly very awake. "I mean, I don't think the lacy ones are for...everyday wear."

Richie lets out a long sigh, mouth quirking. "You tell me this now."

"I may have a solution," Eddie says.

"Oh, a _solution_." Richie moves to trap Eddie's thighs between his. Long fingers trail through Eddie's hair while Richie presses kisses to his jaw.

Richie intertwines his fingers with Eddie's, stopping them on the path to his waistband.

"Ok, just, before you-I mean. You're aware that I'm not like, Timothée Chalamet, right?"

Eddie blinks at the non-sequitir. "I don't think I've ever been more aware of anything in my life."

Richie huffs a laugh. "Because I feel like maybe you have an idea of how these would look on...Timothée Chalamet. Or your cute little twunky body. Like, I don't exactly have the feminine hips to pull these off."

"Yeah," Eddie says. "That's the _point_. You're all tall, and broad-shouldered, and-and you have those big fucking hands, and it's-it's the _juxtaposition_."

Richie looks progressively more delighted with every word Eddie speaks. He opens and closes his mouth, like he's debating which part to latch on to, then says, "Your dirty talk is so _nerdy_. Do you have a secret folder filled with essays on my body? Where should I be looking?"

Eddie levels him with an unimpressed look. "It wasn't dirty talk. It was a fucking explanation."

"Dirty explanation," Richie amends, wearing the smile he thinks is charming.

Eddie hates that he wants to kiss it.

But before he can, Richie stands up, unceremoniously pulling off his sweats and throwing them on a chair.

Eddie's pretty sure his mouth could not be drier if he deep-throated a sponge.

"Huh,' says Richie, looking down. 'Not a lot of coverage."

"Kinda the point," Eddie manages. He still can't bring himself to stand up.

"I'm pretty sure this fabric is not gonna be able to handle a boner," Richie continues, conversationally, doing _something_ , because Eddie isn't, Eddie _can't_.

"Hey," Richie says, glancing at the chair, arms curling around his own torso. He looks like he's about 2 seconds away from being the poster for a bad sex comedy, hands clutched around his crotch. "Do you want me to-"

That kickstarts Eddie's brain, finally. "No," he says, standing and sliding his hands up Richie's back. "I was just-appreciating," he says, pressing a kiss into the curve of Richie's neck, smelling soap tinged with sweat.

Richie tangles his fingers in Eddie's shirt. "Appreciating," he repeats, and maybe it's meant to sound teasing, but it comes out kind of soft and awed.

Eddie nips lightly at Richie's lips. His hands drift lower, so he can feel fractions of Richie between each lace circlet.

He thinks it might feel different, biting into skin, so he brings his hand down. Lightly at first. Harder, when Richie makes a soft sound, cock twitching. 

Richie whimpers and _thosebigfuckinghands_ make a welcome appearance, one clutching at Eddie's waist, nails marking 5 crescents that Eddie hopes turn into Saturnian bruises.

The other is gentler, resting at the juncture of his cheek and throat, thumb running over stubble, motion repeated like a mantra as Richie hides his face in Eddie's opposite shoulder.

Eddie, curious, slips a hand underneath the hem of the underwear, brushing over the pinkened skin. There are fine lace imprints right where Eddie's hand landed. It's a little mesmerising, and Eddie's thumb keeps circling. He's not even really meaning to tease, but he feels Richie groan hum through him, and realises that's exactly what he's doing.

Eddie moves his free hand to lift Richie's chin so he can hear him properly, but he abruptly shuts up. Eddie rolls his eyes, but kisses him anyway. He likes a clean mouth, but a messy kiss. All toothpaste and chasing Richie's tongue. 

By the time he pulls back, his lips are spit-slicked, so he kneels and presses kisses down Richie's chest, the peppermint echo lasting long after his lips move.

He licks at Richie through the lace and Richie's hand tugs at his hair. It's a little awkward, but he takes as much of Richie as he can through the fabric.

"Eddie," he hears, in pleading tones.

He knows all of this is different, for the two of them. 

Eddie's never been so sure of anything, as he is about Richie. He never feels so stable, the ground underneath his feet never feels so firm as it does when he's kissing Richie, touching Richie, fucking Richie.

But Richie gets dizzy with wanting. Gets scared, like he did in high school, scared of wanting too much. Needs something to ground him.

Eddie stands up, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth and says, "You want to lie down?"

Richie nods and Eddie gives him a light push. "On your back," he says, because he's not _that_ easy-going.

Richie stumbles towards the bedroom, and does as he's asked.

Eddie takes a minute to breathe before he follows, stripping off his shirt and slacks along the way and laying them on a chair.

It's only when he takes the moment to observe that he notices Richie's now wearing more than just the underwear.

"Thought I'd get ready for you," Richie says.

He breaths in sharply as Eddie pulls at the plug experimentally.

" _You_ wanted to get straight to the point?" Eddie says, finding a rhythm to push and pull at the plug before leaving it in. "Richie-I Need 6 Hours of Foreplay-Tozier?"

"I know. I'm fu-ull of surprises. Literally."

"Since you're so committed to the efficiency of this whole operation, could you pass me the lube?"

Richie reflexively scoots up to get it, inadvertently sitting directly on the plug in the process.

He shuts his eyes tight and bites down as a whine is halfway out his mouth. When he opens his eyes again, he sees Eddie's smile and looks at him with an air of betrayal.

"You planned that."

"It's not my fault you don't have object permanence."

Richie pouts, pulls the underwear down his long legs and pulls the plug out, putting it on the doona. He grabs the lube and throw it to Eddie. He thinks for a second before grabbing the underwear and throwing that at Eddie too.

Eddie, who's in the middle of running a slicked hand over his dick, doesn't have time to catch the underwear before it hits him in the face.

He can hear Richie snort. "I'm still here, by the way. I know you have problems with object permanence."

Eddie shakes his head, and the underwear falls onto the doona. He rolls his eyes, but takes it in his hand as he lines up with Richie, so that the ruffles of lace brush against his thigh as he pushes in.

Eddie shifts his hips until he finds the angle that makes Richie tighten around him.

"Eddie," he says, "Eds," and Eddie locks onto that, snapping his hips forward with an ever-increasing pace.

There's a lot he wants to say. That he likes that Richie''s sense of fashion falls largely into the _is it ironically or sincerely terrible?_ category, but the fact that each time he makes an effort, each time he's _on display_ it's for Eddie. No one else is gonna see Richie in red lace, and that thought alone makes his hips stutter.

But he can't say any of that now, can't risk freaking Richie out and ending this whole thing.

"Love you," he breathes instead, thumbing the soft skin of Richie's cock with his free hand.

Richie makes this pained noise and looks up at Eddie. "You can't _say_ that. You know what happens."

"S'fine. I'm n-not gonna last long." 

But at _that_ , Richie gets this curious, determined look on his face. He props himself up on his elbows, looking up at Eddie.

"Stop." Eddie's thoroughly unnerved at being watched.

"You're never first," Richie says, as if that's an excuse.

"Whose fau- _oh_ ," and then Richie's hips are driving up to meet him, soaking up every last frisson of energy Eddie has to give.

In the midst of the white space his brain's been launched into, he distantly hears a string of semi-intelligible cursing.

Once he's back to Earth, Eddie pulls out slowly, and collapses onto the bed on his back.

"Simul-fucking-taneous," he hears Richie say next to him. "We could _teach_ this shit."

"You take the remedial class."

Richie turns onto his side, smiles at him, and pinches Eddie's thigh, drawing a soft whine from him. _Which, ok, is a pretty good rebuttal._

Eddie grabs his hand, pulls it until it's resting on Eddie's stomach instead. He plays with Richie's fingers. "What do you think? Should we keep them?"

"Definitely. Although I think next time I should wear the Spanx."

Eddie is just about to throw a pillow at him, when he adds. "And maybe you could wear the lace."

And Eddie has about 300 ideas simultaneously.

"...I'll consider it."


End file.
